


Eyes Without a Face

by thesentimentalist



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Any Resemblance to Persons Living or Dead is Probably Satire, Artistic License, Aziraphale and Crowley: A-Holes but not 100 Percent of Dicks, Buddy Cop AU, Enemies to Lovers, Human AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Mystery, Police Procedural, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-06-19 19:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15516453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesentimentalist/pseuds/thesentimentalist
Summary: "Anthony looked at the shrouded figure on the table and smirked.'You gonna introduce me to your friend there?''That didn’t work the last time you tried it.” The man said, “or the time before that. Or the time before that. In fact, it's never worked at all. So why do you keep trying?''Just making your life interesting, Mr. Fell.''I have the corpses for that, Mr. Crowley.'"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was asking for prompts on tumblr and a friend told me to write a Good Omens buddy cop au. He knows me too well. I'm not sure exactly how long this thing is going to turn out but I have it plotted and now it's just a matter of getting the damn thing out on paper.

January 3rd.  
The doors slid open and a blast of cold air enveloped Crowley. He pulled off his glasses and wiped them with the tail of his shirt as he walked to the freight elevator.  
He was about to press the button when he heard a voice call out,  
“Hey, can you hold the door?”  
He stuck an arm out into the doorway, and heard the sound of wheels squeaking. A man rolled a long table into the elevator.  
“Thanks.” the man said.  
Crowley looked at the shrouded figure on the table and smirked.  
“You gonna introduce me to your friend there?”  
“That didn’t work the last time you tried it.” The man said, “or the time before that. Or the time before that. In fact, it's never worked at all. So why do you keep trying?”  
“Just making your life interesting, Mr. Fell.”  
“I have the corpses for that, Mr. Crowley.”  
The elevator dinged as it came to a stop. Mr. Fell glanced over at Crowley and gave him a look that could strip paint before pushing the gurney out into the hallway.  
A shiver ran down Anthony’s spine. He hurried after him.  
“Seriously though. What can you tell me about the deceased?”  
“Nothing yet.” Mr. Fell said tersely.  
They reached the end of the hall, and Crowley hit a button mounted on the wall, causing the morgue’s double doors to swing open.  
“Thank you.” Mr. Fell said, pushing the gurney into the room.  
“You could thank me by telling me what you know.” Anthony said, “Hello Wensleydale.” He nodded to the assistant coroner, who was sitting at his desk.  
“Hello Mr. Crowley.” Wensleydale said.  
“What can you tell our readers at Newsfeed?” Anthony asked.  
“Find a better newspaper.” Mr. Fell said coldly.  
Wensleydale snickered. Crowley smiled sharply.  
“Mr. Crowley I have an autopsy to perform and if you don’t leave right now I’ll call security.” Mr. Fell said.  
“Ok, ok,” Crowley said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, “I’ll be seeing you.” He said, backing out of the room.  
As soon as the doors swung shut behind him, Mr. Fell’s shoulders sagged as if he had just set down a heavy burden.  
“Help me with this.” he said, unzipping the body bag.  
. . .  
Juanita’s parents had been church goers. It hadn’t stuck, but the part about loving your neighbor had, and so she found herself here, Sunday after Sunday, picking up garbage.  
She liked it. It got her out of the house on weekends, and she liked chatting with the other volunteers while the picked trash from the river. Liked watching the engineers chipping away at the concrete. Liked watching the plants and animals slowly take back what was theirs. It made her feel good, like she was accomplishing something.  
Juanita and Hua Ming trudged along, wading through the creek with delusions of grandeur that had the audacity to call itself the Los Angeles River, stabbing pieces of trash with their sticks and chatting about their weeks.  
“So he says ‘how much for the plant?” Hua Ming said, “And I say ‘It's not for sale?’ And he’s like ‘Ok.’ and leaves. It didn’t hit me until I was back on the highway that he thought it was weed.”  
Juanita laughed.  
“Hey look,” he said, pointing to some reeds up ahead, “someone dumped a whole mannequin in there.”  
“Aw Jesus.” Juanita said, “I don’t think that's going to fit in our bags.”  
She plunged forward with gusto, but as she got closer, she began to realize that something was wrong; that something smelled wrong.  
“Oh god this place reeks.” Hua Ming said.  
“Hua Ming.”  
Juanita reached out and grabbed the mannequin’s ankle. The rotting flesh gave beneath her fingertips.  
Hua Ming drew a sharp, shuddering breath next to her.  
“Go call the police.” Juanita said. “Go call the—”  
. . .  
Mr. Fell and Wensleydale were standing outside the ambulance loading bay, waiting. Wensleydale paced up and down in front of the door. Mr. Fell stood still, stiff, and resigned.The ambulance arrived with routine monotony. The ambulance driver had Mr. Fell sign some paperwork, and helped them load the body bag onto the gurney.  
“You new here?” she said, nodding at Wensleydale.  
“Yes. Started two weeks ago.” he said.  
She let out a long, low, whistle and shook her head.  
He stared after her as she drove away.  
“What do you suppose that was about?” he asked.  
Mr. Fell shrugged, frowning. Back in the morgue, they laid the body bag on the table. Wensleydale got a cart of surgical tools while Mr. Fell found the rubber gloves.  
“Alright,” Mr. Fell said, “let's see what we have here.”  
He unzipped the body bag, and found a slimy mass of blood, hair, and shattered bone.  
. . .  
Three and a half hours later, Wensleydale collapsed into his chair, his face pale.  
Mr. Fell disposed of his gloves, walked over, and put a hand on Wensleydale’s shoulder.  
“Was that your first murder?” He asked.  
Wensleydale nodded. Mr. Fell sighed and patted his shoulder.  
“It doesn’t get easier. But you find ways not to think about it. It's easier to—if you cover the face, while you.”  
Wensleydale put his head in his hand and nodded.  
“Yes. Well. Go home.” Mr. Fell said, “I can finish the paperwork this time.”  
“Are you sure?” Wensleydale asked.  
“Yes, of course dear boy. Go home.”  
“Ok, thanks.”  
Wensleydale gathered his things and left. As Mr. Fell was sitting down with his paperwork, he heard a familiar voice in the hall.  
“I heard you have a murder, can you tell me anything?” Mr. Crowley asked.  
Wensleydale muttered something indistinct. Mr. Fell stood and walked swiftly across the room, prepared to kick ass and take names, when Mr. Crowley said:  
“Do you need some water, wastebasket?”  
“No.” Wensleydale said, “no I just. It's different.” He sighed heavily, “From the cadavers in medical school. And old man who died in his sleep, donating his body to science is so much different than . . . that. Than her.”  
Mr. Fell stopped at the door, and stood there, listening.  
“I’ve worked the crime beat for a long time” said Mr. Crowley, “and I’ve known my share of emergency workers. Let me give you some free advice kid: don’t try to be macho. You have one of the hardest jobs in the world and it's going to hurt like hell sometimes. Go talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be a psychologist; just talk to someone. And don’t be alone tonight.”  
There was a pause.  
“Thanks Mr. Crowley.” Wensleydale said, “that really . . . thanks.”  
“No problem.” Crowley said.  
Two sets of footsteps headed away from the office.  
“And hey, if you ever want to look into support group, I know a couple.”  
There was the muffled sound of a door opening and closing.  
Mr. Fell stood by the door for a long time. Then he shook himself, walked to his desk, and turned his attention to the autopsy report.  
Deceased: Jane Doe  
Cause of death: Massive Trauma to the Head  
Manner of Death: Homicide


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Bailey came down the next day to go over the autopsy report. 

“Female. 16 to 25. Cause of death: a blow to the head, you can see where the skull caved in.” Mr. Fell said, gesturing to the dead woman’s skull with a pen. “There is extensive bruising, and we had difficulty determining what was pre mortem and what was post mortem. The toxicology report says that the deceased was drunk at the time of death, but given the fact that the body was dumped in the river, and the extent of the injuries, it seems very likely that we’re dealing with a homicide, as opposed to some kind of an accident.”

“Anything that might identify her?” Bailey asked.

“The face was . . . the skull is so badly damaged I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to get in terms of dental records. Fingerprints are in the report.” He said, handing Bailey the file.

“Alright,” said Bailey as he turned to go, “have a good day.”

. . . 

Mr. Fell and Wensleydale were filling out paperwork when Mr. Crowley slid in the door. 

“Hello!” he said. 

“Hi.” Wensleydale replied. 

“There haven’t been any murders.” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley stopped in the middle of the room and stared a moment before recovering himself and walking over to hover by Mr. Fell’s desk. 

“You know me too well.” he said, “Any suspicious deaths, grisly accidents, flesh eating viruses?” 

“Not today.” Mr. Fell said.

“Thank you Mr. Fell.” Crowley said distractedly as he made his way back to the door, throwing glances over his shoulder and only just managing to avoid tripping over a cable. 

Mr. Fell turned back to his paperwork. 

“Wensleydale, would you hand me the report?”

Wensleydale did not answer.

Mr. Fell looked over to his desk. 

Wensleydale was staring at him. 

“I think that’s the most civil I’ve ever seen you be to him.” Wensleydale said, eyes wide. 

Mr. Fell muttered something incomprehensible. 

. . . 

April 24th. 

Charlie stopped in the middle of the Fletcher Street bridge to look over the side at the water. It was his little morning ritual. Every morning on the way to work, he’d stop here to watch the river. It wasn’t much to look at, although the reclamation project had made some improvements, but something about looking into the water made him feel peaceful. 

He leaned on the railing and drank in the morning. The river was swollen with rare, precious rain, and he watched leaves and bits of plastic swirling in the eddies. His eyes followed a bottle as it twisted and turned and became stuck in the reeds on the bank. That’s when he saw it.

Oblong, white, and terribly suggestive– floating towards him in the reeds. 

For a moment he was paralyzed, blinking in disbelief at the wad of plastic. But then shaped went over some rocks and turned over in the current. 

A pale arm flopped out of the wrapping.

Charlie pulled his phone out of his pocket with shaking hands, and dialed 911.

. . . 

Mr. Fell unzipped the body bag and found a crushed, bloody mess where a face should have been. He shuddered. 

“Oh dear oh dear.” he said. 

“What is it?” Wensleydale asked from across the room where he was washing his hands. 

Mr. Fell let him come across the room and see for himself. 

Wensleydale winced. 

Some time later, as they were cataloguing bruises, Wensleydale said, 

“I might be wrong but, does this remind you of that Jane Doe from a few months back?” 

Mr. Fell paused. 

“Now that you mention it . . .”

“The shape of the bruises and the–” 

“way the skull was broken seems like a baseball bat or a heavy cane.” Mr. Fell finished, turning the head gently to the side and examining the craggy hole where it was stoved in.“Oh my. I do believe you’re right. Oh dear.”

They finished the autopsy, and as Mr. Fell threw away his gloves he said:

“It could mean anything, or it could mean nothing. We’ll inform the detective. The rest is out of our department.”

When detective Reed came down to the morgue to pick up the autopsy report, Aziraphale told him, 

“This woman was killed in a similar manner to a woman who was killed in January, for whatever that’s worth.”

“Who’s case?” asked Reed. 

“Bailey’s.” said Mr. Fell. 

Reed scratched his chin and mulled over the report. 

“Drugs?”

“There were needle marks on her arm.”

“Could be gang activity.” he said, almost to himself, and then, louder, as he turned to leave the room, “I’ll run it past Narcotics, see if they know anything.”

. . . 

It was 3:30 and Mr. Crowley found himself in the cafeteria picking over a late lunch. I had been a long day. He hadn’t had the chance to eat and thought it would be expedient to grab something at the office before he went to talk to Mr. Fell.

He looked down sullenly at the slimy pasta salad on his plate and regretting it. 

“Pasta salad?” a voice behind him said. 

He turned around. It was Mr. Fell, carrying a container of salad and a paper cup.  

The corners of Mr. Fells lips twitched. 

“No one makes that mistake twice.” and then, “I have some information for you. I’d ask if you wanted to wait so as not to put you of your food but that doesn’t appear to be a problem.”

Mr. Crowley laughed in spite of himself. 

“Let’s have it.” he said, throwing his arms out wide. 

“You’d better come down to the office.” Mr Fell said, turning and nodding towards the door. 

Mr. Crowley stood and followed him out. In the relative privacy of the elevator Mr. Fell said. 

“It’s not a murder, but it is a . . . rather unusual death. No doubt you heard this morning that the famous actor Thomas Charles Beech was found dead in his home?”

Crowley pulled the pen from behind his ear, hands shaking with excitement. 

“Yes?”

The elevator doors opened. 

Mr. Fell stepped out, Crowley fast on his heels. He walked, Crowley thought, at far too leisurely a pace for a man who had details on the death of Thomas Charles Beech. They reached the office door. They stepped inside. Mr. Fell turned, and shut the door behind them. 

Crowley wanted to scream. 

“What no one but first responders, the trauma surgeon, and the two of us knows yet,” Mr. Fell said, leaning in conspiratorially, “is that he was killed by a bengal tiger he had been keeping in his backyard.”

. . . 

Wensleydale came in the next morning with a funny look on his face. He kept glancing over at Mr. Fell whenever he thought he wouldn’t be seen. Eventually this became out and out staring. Mr. Fell decided to let him stew in whatever question it was he had and come to the point himself. His patience was rewarded at lunch when he said. 

“I saw the article on Thomas Charles Beech.”

“Ah.” said Mr. Fell. 

“From Newsfeed.” Wensleydale said pointedly. 

“So it is.” Mr. Fell replied blandly. 

...

August 3rd

Clement was picking his way through the river, hunting for plastic. The city paid ¢20 per bottle. It wasn’t a lot, but Clement didn’t have a lot to begin with. 

He saw a stand of reeds growing under one of the bridges, and plunged ahead excitedly. Bottles got trapped in the reeds. He parted the grass with his arms and looked down.

Two eyes looked back up at him.

He reeled back screaming.

. . .

“Mr. Fell?” Wensleydale said, looking down into the body bag. 

Mr. Fell was over in the cupboard, looking for a scalpel. 

“What is it?”

“You should come see this.”

Mr. Fell extracted himself from the boxes and went to have a look. 

“Oh dear.” he said. 

It was a woman. The back of her head had been smashed in, and her jaw broken. And by the nature of these injuries by a long but relatively thin bludgeon, like a baseball bat.

“I don’t want to jump the gun,” Wensleydale said, “but . . .”

“Yes, no, you’re right. Oh dear. She does look an awful lot like . . .”

“But she wasn’t beaten nearly as badly,” Wensleydale pointed out, “Just her head. And you can still see her nose and her . . . and her eyes.”

Mr. Fell nodded “The killer could have been interrupted.”

Then he said, “Let's finish the autopsy. I’ll talk to the detective when they come for the report.”

. . . 

They finished the autopsy. A tattoo and a search of the missing persons report gave them the name Ruby Florentine, a 23 year old woman from Los Angeles. Detective Bailey was bringing a relative to identify her. 

Mr. Fell sat at his desk in somber silence, chair turned to face the door, until he heard the sound of the elevator door and footsteps echoing at the end of the hall. He stood, and the door opened. Detective Bailey came in. The boy in ratty jeans and a band t shirt who followed in after him was certainly no more than 17 years old, . 

Mr. Fell made eye contact with Bailey, his eyes darting from him, to the boy, and back again. 

Bailey gave him a gloomy shrug.

“He was the only relative.” he whispered as he passed Aziraphale on the way to the desk,.

The boy’s face was pale and pinched. 

Mr. Fell led him to the desk and told him to sit down. He stood next to him and set a series of photographs in front of him. Long brown hair. A tattoo of a flower on a bicep. Two cold, lifeless eyes. 

“Its her,” the boy said, nodding “it's her, oh god—.”

He buried his face in his hands. Mr. Fell gathered up the photographs and returned them to the folder. 

The boy began to stand up. 

“If you go to the front office,” Mr. Fell said, “Ms. Marchant will help you make arrangements–”

The boy’s knees buckled under him. Mr. Fell caught him under the armpits to prevent him from falling to the ground, and half dragged him over and deposited him in a chair by the wall. He was hyperventilating. 

_ What should I say?  _ He thought desperately. Failing that, he tried crouching in front of him. And then,  _ what would Mr. Crowley say? _

“Breath.” He said, putting his hands on the young man’s shoulders, “I want you to breath with me.”

Detective Bailey led him away. Mr. Fell watched as they walked out the door.

“Dear god.” He said.

. . . 

Detective Bailey came down for the report a half an hour or so later.

“What have you got?” He asked, walking over to the table.

“I’ll cut right to the chase, detective. Do you remember the Jane Doe who was beaten to death last January?”

Detective Bailey looked thoughtful. A half a minute later, a glimmer of recognition to dawn in his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah sure.”

“And the one in May?”

“Sure.”

“Ms. Florentine was killed in the same way, with the same sort of weapon. All three of these people were found dead, their bodies dumped in the same three mile stretch of river.”

Detective Bailey nodded slowly, eyebrows raised, as if he did not understand.

Mr. Fell decided to go in for the direct approach. “Detective, I think we may be dealing with a serial killer.” 

“Look.” Said Detective Bailey, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “That last girl was an addict, this one probably is too. Addicts die every day. She probably crossed her dealer or something. I wouldn’t be too concerned about it.”

He took the report, and walked out the door. 

Mr. Fell stood and stared, even after the door had swung shut and the sound of Bailey’s footsteps had faded away. 

He looked over at the table. The dead woman’s head was turned towards him, her cloudy eyes staring unblinkingly into his own and reproaching him. He shuddered once, and found he could not stop, sinking into his chair as hot, angry, tears welled up from the pit in his chest where he had buried his grief. 

It was a hard job. And the only thing worse than the suffering of the dead was the callousness of the living. 

He took of his glasses. His vision swam. He hunched over, holding his head in his hands, and sobbed: deep, breathless cries, until he he ran out of tears and sat hiccuping and gasping. 

Until there was no pain—only weary resolve. 

He reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card.


	3. Chapter 3

It was six o’clock when Anthony pushed the door to his apartment open and staggered in; kicking off his shoes, dropping his briefcase at the end of the hall; and shedding his jacket, tie, and socks on the way to the couch, where he collapsed and threw one arm over his face. He indulged in these theatrics for a few moments before heaving himself up and grabbing the remote. 

He had just queued up  _ The Golden Girls _ when his phone began to buzz.  He groaned again, fishing the phone out of his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered it anyway.

“Hello?” 

“Good evening Mr. Crowley? This is Mr. Fell.”

For a moment, Crowley didn’t say anything. 

Then he sat bolt upright.

“Mr. Fell! What can I do for you?”

“You know that sushi place on East 2nd?” Mr, Fell asked.

“Yes?”

“Meet me there in a half an hour. There’s been—well, let's just say I have a story for you.”

“Ok,” said Anthony, rising to his feet, “I’ll see you there.

Mr. Fell hung up without another word. 

Huh. 

Anthony threw on his suit jacket, ran a hand through his hair, and gave himself a sharp slap across the face. He was tired, but a story big enough to make Mr. Fell call him must be worth hearing. 

. . . 

The host lead him back to a little room with a noren covering the entryway. Inside, he found Mr. Fell with a bottle of saké and a grim expression. 

“Otokoyama?” Crowley said, “You have excellent taste.”

Mr. Fell startled, but relaxed minutely when he saw it was Crowley.

“Mr. Crowley. Would you care for a glass?” he said. 

“No thanks,” Crowley said, sliding into the chair across from Mr. Fell, “I try not to drink on the job.”

“Ah, of course,” said Mr. Fell, topping off his cup.

Crowley got his pen and paper. Mr. Fell knocked back his sake.

“Well, let's get to it. Back in January,” Mr. Fell said, “some volunteers found a woman’s body in the river. You probably remember this, you ghoul.”

Anthony nodded. He did. 

“The, in April, a guy walking to work finds another woman’s body. Same stretch of the river. Same cause of death.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, today,” Mr. Fell said with a mirthless little laugh, “I performed an autopsy on the third woman found in the Los Angeles river with her head bashed in..”

Crowley began writing.

“Mr. Crowley,” Mr. Fell hissed, leaning in across the table, “We have had three murders in 8 months, in the same place, with the same kind of victim and the same cause of death. I may not be an FBI agent, but I know what that means.”

Crowley paused. 

“Why are you telling  _ me _ this?” He asked. 

Mr. Fell smiled crookedly.

“You work for an outlet that I'd only call news if I were feeling generous.” He said, “But you are still a journalist. And I need everyone in Los Angeles to know about Ruby Florentine.” 

“Is that the latest, well . . . ?” Crowley asked.

“Yes.” Said Mr. Fell. 

“Now,” Crowley said, “ _why_ are you telling me this?”

“Does it matter?” Mr. Fell asked.

“Maybe,” Crowley said, “or maybe not. I’m curious. You see dead people every day. What makes this one different.”

Mr. Fell look stricken. For a moment, Crowley worried that he had gone too far. But Mr. Fell said,

“When the detective, Detective Bailey, came down to get the autopsy report, I tried to explain to him. ” Mr. Fell sighed heavily, “And he said ‘She was probably an addict. Addicts die all the time. She probably ran afoul of her dealer. Nothing out of the ordinary.’” 

Crowley’s pen ground to a halt. He looked up at Mr. Fell

“It matters very much.” he said, and then, “Are you alright?” 

Mr. Fell chuckled–a hollow, bitter, sound, and lapsed into tense silence.

“Stupid question. Do you need a minute?”

Mr. Fell shook his head.

“Ok.” Said Anthony, “Tell me everything you know.” 

. . . 

Crowley knocked on the office door of a dingy apartment complex. An older woman in a bathrobe answered.

“Can you tell me where Mr. Florentine is?” He asked.

The woman looked him up and down, taking in his crisp, dark suit.

“You here about Ruby’s service?” She asked.

“Sort of. I’m with Newsfeed. I’m writing a story about Ruby. I don’t suppose I could ask you some questions?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned against the door jam.

“You leave that poor girl alone do you hear me? I know your kind. She had enough trouble in life without you dragging her name through the mud. Poor child.” She said.

“I don’t want to drag her name through the mud.” Crowley said, “Quite the opposite. You know how this works. A girl dies but if she’s not blonde and pretty no one gives a damn. I want them to give a damn about Ruby.”

The woman peered at him for a long moment. 

Then she nodded.

Crowley pulled out his notepad.

“Is this on record, Ms. . . ?” He asked.

“Sure.” The woman said, “Trujilo. Mrs. Trujilo.”

“What can you tell me about Ruby?” Crowley asked.

“She was a good girl. She worked hard.”

“Had she lived here long?”

“She and her brother have been living here for a little more than six months now.”

“How old is her brother?”

“17.”

“And their parents?”

“I don’t know. They never said anything, but I never saw anyone visit. Maybe there was trouble at home. Maybe their parents are dead. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“She worked down at the gas station on the corner in the mornings, and waited tables at night. Hardly ever took a day off. She paid rent on time, or near it. But there’s not a lot you can do with $10 an hour. I heard them arguing sometimes, her brother wanted to get a job, but she wanted him to focus on school.”

“Thank you very much for your insight. Is there any chance I could talk to her brother?”

“Let me ask.” She said. 

She retreated into her apartment. A minute later, she reemerged with a young man, his eyes were red rimmed and swollen. 

“My condolences.” Crowley said, meaning it, “I’m Anthony J. Crowley from the Newsfeed. Can I ask you some questions about your sister?”

The young man shook his hand. 

“Vincent Florentine. I suppose so.”

Mrs. Trujilo lead them into her living room, and sat them on some chairs.She patted Vincent on the shoulder and leaned in.

“If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.” She said.

He nodded, and she left. He turned back to Crowley.

“What do you want to know?” He asked.

“What would you like people to remember about your sister?” Crowley asked.

Vincent looked down at his hands.

…

Mr. Fell was sitting at his desk when Mr. Crowley strode through the door and came to a stop in front of his desk. 

“Morning Mr. Fell.” He said, “Can I see your computer for a second?”

Mr. Fell raised an eyebrow at him, but scooted to one side to give him access to the keyboard. Crowley typed something into the search bar and brought up the Newsfeed website. 

“Front page.” He said, sliding out from behind the desk, “Caio.”

As Mr. Fell watched him go, he heard a noise. He turned. Wensleydale was spluttering.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Fell asked.

Wensleydale gestured at the door. 

Mr. Fell waved his hands at him, “ not important, get back to work.”

He turned back to look at the screen. A headline was splashed across the screen:

“Serial Killer at Large in Los Angeles?”

_ Early yesterday morning, a homeless man discovered the body of Ruby Florentine floating in the Los Angeles river. Hers is the third in a series of murders in the area where a young woman was bludgeoned to death and dumped in the Los Angeles River. A Jane Doe was found in the river in January, and then again in April. Despite the escalating pattern of murders, LAPD is still treating these cases as unrelated. _

**Author's Note:**

> Edited on 8/7/18: I realized that I was using inconsistent names for Aziraphale. Rip me. Search and replace is your friend y'all.


End file.
